


you're the pulse in my veins; you're the war that I wage

by Lord Vitya (ProtoDan)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017), Midnighter and Apollo (Comics)
Genre: (i mean eventually but these boys are gonna have to WORK for it), (i mean it's henry bendix is anyone surprised), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dehumanization, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Torture, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 04:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14180424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoDan/pseuds/Lord%20Vitya
Summary: The Batman takes on a serial kidnapping case, following what threads he can find until the threads cease to exist—whereupon he is distracted by bigger problems, such as the end of the world.And then, in the wake of Superman's death, when Batman thinks he's found all the other metahumans, one of the victims he failed to save comes back to haunt him.





	you're the pulse in my veins; you're the war that I wage

It is born into pain. Sharp, piercing, under the skin, burrowing deep and deeper, scraping out Its insides. It cries out until It has no voice, It thrashes until the agony is too much to bear and the nothingness covers It, giving the final relief of oblivion.

 

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The first file comes to the Bat two years after—After. The sting is still too great, the infection of it too deep, to think in any more specific terms. There is only Before, and After.

It's been left there without ceremony or circumstance, a plain, mustard yellow envelope dropped across the main console's keyboard. (Not that it takes much to extrapolate who left it there, even though Alfred is suspiciously absent.)

The work of opening it is barely too delicate to do in Kevlar gauntlets, and this will be a long, long night besides. The envelope goes untouched for half an hour, while the Bat strips out of his armor, cleans himself as best he can, and nurses the now utterly tepid mug of coffee at the console.

It goes ignored for another two hours, until Alfred's quiet footsteps echo through the Cave as he descends the stairs, and Bruce remembers again. Bruce jerks his attention from the console screen, undoing the envelope's clasp and easing the thin stack of papers out. If Alfred notices that he's only just started to pore over them—and there's no way he won't—he's too polite to say.

"Pardon any presumption, sir," says Alfred, as he places a tray laden with a bowl of granola, a bottle of milk, and—thank god—another mug of coffee, still steaming. "But these cases seemed somewhat relevant to your interests, as it were. Ten missing persons reported in the last two months alone, and heaven knows how many before, all from within the Upper West Side. Further similarities—"

"Such as age," Bruce says, something hard and cold settling in his chest as the averages begin to map themselves out in his brain. "All of the victims were born between nineteen-ninety-three and ninety-seven."

"Such as age," Alfred agrees, as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, "and economic status. Among other things. The GCPD believes that these cases are connected."

"A serial kidnapper," Bruce murmurs, the chill settling low in the pit of his stomach now. He draws a hand down his face, rubbing at his mouth for a moment before reaching out and taking the fresh coffee, though the heat of it isn't nearly enough to ease his dread. The coldness in his chest only builds as he scans the pages again, and again, and again. "Alfred, the most recent report for any of these kids is from almost five weeks ago."

Alfred's face settles into a familiar weariness, before he turns to look over the Batmobile. "Yes, sir."

They both know the implications of this: should the kidnapper also turn out to be a murderer—which, given how much time has passed since even the most recent cases, is horribly likely—there is an almost ninety percent likelihood that these boys were dead barely a day after their disappearance. With a five week gap between the reports coming in and reaching Bruce's attention...

Bruce puts the mug down. "If this is a case of serial abduction, why haven't we heard about it sooner?"

"Any number of reasons, sir," Alfred says grimly. "According to several parents' testimonies collected by the GCPD, some were concerned that the victims were involved in... unsavory activities, and that this might implicate them in—"

"That explains why it wasn't reported to the police, Alfred," Bruce cuts in. "Why haven't _we_ heard about these, even after they were reported?"

Alfred's eyebrows come up barely a fraction of an inch as he turns back to look Bruce in the eye. He adjusts his glasses, taking a slow breath. "I'm afraid I can't say, sir."

 

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The pain does not stop. The Nothing isn't enough, it can't be enough. It will always wake again. Something hot and wet streaks Its skin, its eyes first stinging and then burning, burning, _burning_ , Its throat spasming with the pain. There's a voice—deep, quiet, angry (?). It does not understand. It thinks, maybe, It used to, but when It reaches for that comprehension, it slips through Its fingers. The voice cuts off. A heartbeat passes. It hears a faint grunt, and then there's a pinpoint pressure against Its skin, and then—nothing.

 

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There are another five missing persons cases reported in the Gotham metropolitan area in the next three months that fit the profile—young men, aged sixteen to eighteen, from low-income areas, three of which were only reported by friends of the victims when the families didn't come forward. The GCPD has yet to collect any relevant information about any potential suspects, or any suspicious vehicles seen around the times of each disappearance.

Bruce refuses to allow himself to succumb to the dread that has begun to live in his bones. He takes the photos of the missing boys, and he makes a mural of them, pinned to a corkboard and strung together wherever he can see connections, the corkboard held up on a makeshift easel within arm's reach of the glass case where—where Bruce keeps the memorial. Both are reminders of what he fights for and why, of the people he cannot let down. (Of the people he already has.)

The Bat, meanwhile, only grows angry. He patrols in and around the neighborhoods where the boys were taken or last seen, watching. Waiting.

Watching, and seeing nothing.

 

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It can see. The light is—stark, it hurts, until it does not, until there's a shadow between It and the light. The shadow coalesces into—eyes, pale and narrow, a downturned mouth. ( _Danger, danger, danger,_ it thinks.) It tries to shrink back.

There's nowhere to go.

The shadow speaks. It hears the deep voice from earlier, still with those slow, incomprehensible sounds sitting just at the edge of understanding. It tries to piece together the noises, to find the breaks between them where they create meaning—It tries, It tries, and It can't. After ten heartbeats, the shadow goes silent, mouth twisting. The shadow moves away from the light, looking at something that makes its mouth twist further. It tries to look, to follow the shadow's eyes, but It—

It can't move. Its heart thunders, deafening in Its ears, as It jerks against Its bonds. The shadow's eyes spark with anger; a hand presses up against Its throat until Its vision splotches. It stills, something cold settling into Its blood. This, It remembers; this is fear.

This is how It learns that the shadow can hurt It— _will_ hurt It, if It makes the shadow angry. If It does not make the shadow angry, then the shadow does not hurt It.

 

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Another three months pass, with only two reports filtering in from the GCPD to the Cave. These, according to the reports, are boys who live at the edges of the Gotham metro area, only Gothamites on a technicality. The kidnapper, then, is becoming more desperate as their options run low. The Bat must expand the radius of observation accordingly.

 

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It loses count of Its heartbeats. Time passes instead as cycles, between Sight and the Nothing. The Nothing is respite, a sleep beyond sleep. It likes the Nothing.

Sight is marked with pain, with the murmurings of voices It can't see. And always, the shadow stands above It, watching with pale, cold eyes. It sometimes sees the shadow answer to specific sounds— _surr_ , _dock-tor_ , and sometimes, _dock-tor bend-icks_. The latter, It only seems to hear following a long, shrill sound, and always with an air of quiet fear. (It knows that these sounds mean _something._ The shadow would not respond to them otherwise, but when It tries to reach for the meanings, the understanding slips between its fingers.

And there, somewhere in the darker edges of Its mind, It thinks—It _used_ to know, It _used_ to be more than It is now, didn't It?

...Didn't It?)

As the cycles pass, It learns other sounds, which the other voices only use as they pass the sharp tools that bring pain between their hands. It learns to fear these too.

The cycles blend into one another, and It begins to separate them by the kinds of pain they bring. First, Its extremities—the soft flesh and the hard bone cut open, changed and replaced until the shadows and voices are satisfied with what they've made of It. When they seal Its skin there, they sound... pleased? In the space of six breaths, the pain fades to a low burn, and then into a blissful nonexistence, and the voices become happy.

And the shadow—the _dock-tor_ leans over its body, eyes tracking up and down It, before the dock-tor's mouth splits open, baring white teeth. There's still that coldness there, but no anger. It does not know what this means, but It does not hurt, for the first time in Its life.

Pain, then, will fade, and when it does, the voices are happy, and It does not hurt.

 

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There is catharsis in interrogation. As the weeks stretch on and turn into months, the Bat finds and questions over a dozen potential suspects, each less helpful than the last. The Bat leaves them for the police anyway, trussing them, marking them as necessary.

The number of reported cases continue to dwindle; almost a year after the investigation began, the Bat has no new reports to cross-examine, and has had none for months prior. Follow-ups on the existing reports, likewise, prove fruitless—the boys do not return, nor are they seen elsewhere, either in nearby areas or otherwise. The parents barely talk to the police, let alone to the Bat; likewise for any friends he might question. Bruce Wayne has no reason to know the scope of the kidnappings, and so will be of no help. The most he can do on that front is to send anonymous aid to the affected families, because god knows none of them need to add defaulted payments to the list of their problems.

It becomes difficult to hope, as the cases grow colder and colder with each passing day. Commissioner Gordon assures the Bat that these cases won't close if he has any say in the matter, but. But. He admits, in a voice that comes too close to guilt, that his men are stretched thin, even with the help of the Bat. (Perhaps, he does not say—but Bruce can all too easily infer—, even because of it. This focus on the missing persons cases has divided the Bat's attention, and even as he has widened his gaze across Gotham's streets, he hasn't devoted as much of his time to everything else that's happened in the past year.)

Gordon doesn't tell him to put the case aside. But the implication, bitter though it may be, is clear.

 

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Sight comes, one cycle, with a blinding pain in Its head. That shrill sound echoes off the walls as It thrashes, and the voices rise to a horrible clamor—the dock-tor's, angry, _furious_ , until It feels that pressure under its skin again and oblivion comes crashing down around It.

 

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Two weeks later, Gordon lights the Signal again—not for a lead, or a new case. His face is nearly unreadable as he looks out over the Gotham skyline. Unreadable, but for the fact that he and the Bat have worked together for the better part of two decades, and even his more subtle tells are laid out plain when one knows what to look for. There's a tension in his jaw, in the way he keeps pressing his lips together and then pretending he hadn't barely a second later. He doesn't look up as the Bat approaches, keeping his gaze resolutely focused on the urban expanse below.

"We need to talk," says Gordon, his voice low.

The Bat stands at Gordon's right hand side, just barely in his periphery. It puts Gordon better at ease, if only barely, and that, evidently, will be a necessary measure tonight. "Then talk."

"One of your suspects in the missing boys case—Marcus Wilhelm, one of the ones you... labeled for us. Very helpful of you, by the way."

Gordon sighs, fishing through his pocket before producing a single sheet of paper and a photograph. Wilhelm, on a stretcher, pale skin turned pallid with blood loss and his torso riddled with wounds from what appears to be, from what a single photograph can infer, a rudimentary shank. Untouched, either by the wounds themselves or by the splatters of blood, is the angry red mark burned into his shoulder, just above his left pectoral. Gordon presses both the paper and the photograph into the Bat's hands—a condemnation.

"Found him dead this morning. Rumor got around to the other inmates that he was hurting kids," Gordon continues, "and... well. You know how that tends to go."

The flicker of a thought— _he deserved it_ —flashes across the Bat's consciousness. That he thinks it at all doesn't scare him; the dark urges that surge through him hardly surprise him anymore, not after so long in this line of work. (Not after Jason.) What sends a spike of ice through his blood is the number of seconds that pass before he even considers doubting it.

(When did he become—this? Was he always this way, or did something shift?)

The Bat's countenance does not change. "You think I'm responsible," he says.

"My _men_ think you're responsible," Gordon says, "because that sure as hell looks like your logo stamped into his shoulder. You spend this long making yourself into a ghost story, and people are seeing you as a ghost—and a damn angry one, at that, ever since..."

The Bat meets Gordon's gaze, calm. (Something shifted, then.) "I didn't kill him," he says. "I thought you knew me better than that."

Gordon holds his gaze for a few more breaths before closing his eyes and turning away with a sigh. "I thought I did, too."

 

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It wakes again, and something is Wrong. The pain has faded into—into absence, but it isn't Nothing because It can see, and what It can see is different. The light is gone—not gone, no, moved. It's sitting upright, Its whole head wrapped up in something thick and warm. Across the room, It sees the dock-tor, arms folded out of sight, staring. Staring. Ten heartbeats pass.

The dock-tor speaks. It struggles, for a moment, to piece together the sounds, and the dock-tor goes silent, mouth pressed into a narrow line. The dock-tor's strides are long, intent, crossing the room in only four steps before reaching out, hand drawn back—

The crack splits the silence, echoing in the empty room. Its head snaps to the side. _Pain._ It screws Its eyes shut, breath coming in short, muted gasps, and It waits for the second strike.

There is none. The dock-tor speaks again, words slow, with the gaps between stark and pronounced. But It does not understand. It—It _can't._ (It used to. It—) It knows pain, It knows the tools that bring its pain, It knows that Its own incomprehension will only bring more pain.

"D..." The sound is thick on Its tongue, but It has to try, It has to speak, to prove It knows _something_. "Dock-tor?"

Fingers on Its chin, turning Its head back to the side. The dock-tor's mouth is drawn up at one corner, eyes sparking with an unkind sort of happiness. It shrinks back—It can now—but that does not feel any safer from the pain. The dock-tor nods, one finger pointing inwards, prodding the pale, opaque material covering its torso. (The dock-tor is covered from shoulder to foot, It realizes, and yet It—isn't. Except for the thick warmth tied up around Its head, Its own skin is bare. Is It supposed to be? It does not know.) "Doctor," the dock-tor repeats, slowly. And then: "Maker."

"May-kurr," It repeats, slowly, afraid.

The doctor nods again, finger moving to press against Its bare chest. "I made you," the doctor intones. It does not understand, but It nods anyway. This makes the doctor smile again.

Which is—good. When It is good, It does not hurt.

 

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A month later, the world explodes.

Bruce sees the Superman for the first time, crashing through the sky in thunder and fire, pulverizing steel and concrete as easily as cardboard. He listens to Jack pray, voice cracking until it breaks, until the call goes dead and Bruce's eardrums finally succumb to the cacophony of Earth crumbling to rubble. Still Bruce sprints headlong into the chaos, the dust stinging at his skin, his eyes. First responders won't reach this area for at least two more minutes; in the meantime, if there's even a fraction of a percent chance that anyone survived the fall, then it falls on his shoulders to help whomever he can.

Slowly, the dust settles around him.

The world is silent as it screams. Bruce takes in the destruction, his chest hollow.

He sees children, crying, as they make their slow way out of the shadows of the Superman's reckoning. The oldest of them looks barely eight. Bruce feels something crumble within him. Innocence, shattered in a single moment, and he should have—he—

As if through a mile of water, Bruce hears his name. Choking down his own pain—like he should have done from the start—he pushes himself towards the sound: a man, crying out, bleeding into the dirt and dust, his shins crushed beneath an I-beam. Even as Bruce reaches out to assess the man's injuries, he can only barely make out his words, but he watches the man's lips move: _I can't feel my legs._ _I can't feel my legs._ A refrain, desperate and disbelieving.

Cold settles deep in Bruce's bones as he screams for help. He ignores it. "You're going to be okay," Bruce swears, because he has always excelled at making promises he cannot hope to keep.

By some miracle, the man believes him.

Bruce can't afford to linger on any one fragment of this disaster for long; not a second after the man's legs are clear of the I-beam, Bruce hears the scream of metal. The remains of a steel and concrete column, its edges fracturing and crumbling as it tips, and tips—and in its shadow stands a little girl, standing frozen as she looks up at the breaking sky. Heart a thundering rush in his ears, Bruce bolts forward, scooping the girl up into his arms in a single motion as he hurtles out of the column's path.

Tucking the girl to his chest, Bruce rolls, skidding on his back as the column crumbles in the space he had been not a second before. He can feel each scrape and tear in his clothes, every fragment of gravel digging into his back—but more importantly, he can feel the quick, shallow breaths of the child in his arms, her rabbiting heart. Faintly, as his hearing starts to come back, he can hear her hiccuping through her tears.

Bruce groans as he sits up, still cradling the girl as close to his chest as he can. He strokes her hair, holding that point of contact as best he can as he draws back to see if she's been hurt. Underneath all the dust and ash, however, she looks to be mostly unharmed. Bruce finally lets himself push out the breath he's been holding as he brushes the dirt from her forehead, wipes away the tears sluicing through the dust smeared across her cheeks.

"You're going to be okay," he tells her, and this, _this_ is a promise he can keep. Whatever it takes, he will keep this child safe. Bruce tucks her hair behind her ear, offers her a smile. "You're okay. I've got you. Okay?" He sees her lower lip start to tremble, and his heart breaks. "I'm going to help you," he promises, "I'm going to help you find your parents, okay? Can you tell me where they are?"

Tears spilling down her cheeks, the girl points upward—up, towards the broken remnants of a skyscraper, its steel skeleton twisted and broken, smoke billowing from what little still stands. As he watches the plumes of smoke reach up into the heavens, Bruce considers his options: stay here, or try and search the building for survivors in the hope that maybe, maybe someone survived the building's destruction.

Which would mean leaving a child, likely now orphaned, alone, at the mercy of the beings battling above them. Bruce shuts his eyes, turning back toward the girl before folding his arms around her once more, tucking her head beneath his chin as she trembles against him.

Bruce looks up to the sky, and there, far above, sees a bolt of red and grey—two gods locked in combat, their conflict splitting the sky, bringing ruin where they fall. He shuts his eyes, and holds the girl that much tighter to his chest.

 

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The cycles stop becoming Sight-and-Pain versus Nothing. There is only Sight, and a new darkness that isn't quite Nothing. It sees things during the darkness, flashes of color and sound, of the doctor standing over It, or cutting into It, or—

It learns, soon, that It does not like that darkness.

Through the clear walls of its room, It sees others who aren't the doctor coming and going, all of them covered in the same light, opaque material as the doctor. All of them have thin strands coming from their scalps, and this is how It recognizes them; one has dark, short strands, another has pale, long strands. The doctor has none at all, scalp bare and almost shiny. The doctor does not come so often now.

Some bring soft things for It to rest on— _bed_ —some come to change the wrap— _bandage_ —around its head. It stays very still for this, or else they hurt It. Some of them will try to soothe It with soft, gentle words ( _hold still_ , It learns quickly), their touches light on Its skin before they leave again. One cycle, they bring a pile of that opaque material, and they have to hold It down to drag the material up Its legs, over Its head and down Its chest. It does not understand (was It supposed to have this all along?), and It does not move for twelve heartbeats after they cover It. The room is less cold, now that It's covered. This, too, is good; It does not like the cold.

One cycle, it wakes to see the others walking not into Its room, but past it, holding between them a new Other, tall and light-skinned, with pale strands falling down to the bare shoulders. It does not breathe as It watches the new Other walk, Its heart racing, and thinks a new word— _beautiful_ —though it does not know why.

And then the others are gone, and It is alone again.

 

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Bruce's focus shifts. (Or, depending on perspective, it merely snaps back to where it should be.) Just because the world has shattered does not mean the darkness at Gotham's core won't continue to writhe—as the weeks in the aftermath of the Superman's battle in Metropolis stretch out into months, the Bat finds his hands perhaps even fuller than usual. Petty crimes grow bolder, and the truly evil of Gotham's underbelly, impossibly, begin to strive for new lows in their depravity. The former, the Bat can still reliably leave in the hands of the GCPD, at least for the most part. The latter, he must balance against the growing threat of the so-called Man of Steel.

This new balancing act, however, is anything but. Every waking moment that he can spare, Bruce dedicates to the Superman, studying his actions, his abilities. He takes the appropriate steps to ensure that his work will not suffer for it, of course; neither Alfred nor Gordon will be any more the wiser when it comes to the Bat's extracurricular activities.

Keep your friends close, Bruce thinks, and your enemies closer.

Over a year after the Battle of Metropolis, an informant in the United States military contacts the Bat—or, more accurately, she comes to the lake house to have a confidential chat with her cousin.

Kate sits on Bruce's couch, still in her fatigues, with her back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as she looks out over the water. Bruce passes her a mug of coffee before sitting in the chair beside her to cradle his own. He follows her gaze, watching the ripples across the surface as the lake's indigenous fish and turtles move below.

"You wanted to talk," Bruce says dryly, glancing at Kate sidelong. "This doesn't look like talking to me."

Kate's mouth pulls up by barely a millimeter at the corner. "It's been a hell of a year," she says, finally looking away from the window. There's certainly a marked exhaustion in her face, at the edges of her pale blue eyes. "A second of peace is hard to come by. I'm sure you understand."

Bruce's only answer is a clipped, derisive snort.

It's apparently the only confirmation Kate needs. She blows across the surface of her coffee and takes a long, slow sip. "I talked to the boys in USAMRIID," she says. "They've been looking at the corpse left in the Battle of Metropolis. Trying to autopsy it since the minute it came in, to... minimal success." Another long drink. "For some reason, it's hard for a medical examiner to make much progress on an invulnerable cadaver."

Bruce raises an eyebrow as he takes a drink for himself. "But," he says.

"But," Kate agrees, "recently, they received a sample of some sort of Kryptonian xenomineral found among the wreckage of the World Engines. As it turns out, the mineral causes rapid cell degradation—at least," she adds, with a fraction of a wry smile, "in Kryptonian cadavers."

Careful not to let his interest show, Bruce places his mug on the coffee table, hands folded as he leans forward. "And you came all the way here to tell me this?" he says. "Not that I don't appreciate the visit, mind you..."

Kate shakes her head. "We were both down there in the rubble, Bruce," she says. "I haven't had a good night's sleep in a year and a half, and I doubt you have either." She glances out the window again, her eyes briefly falling on the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the kitchen counter. Bruce sees the muscles in her jaw tense for barely a second before she looks away. (Trauma is practically a family trait, Bruce thinks, and chastises himself for not thinking to put that away for her sake.)

"There's a possibility—a likelihood, even, that the mineral might have the same effect on living tissue," Kate says. "Meaning there's a possibility that, if something like the Black Zero event happens again, there would be steps we can take to stop that level of destruction from ever happening." She draws a hand over her scalp, pushing her fingers through hair that hasn't been there for years.

"That doesn't explain why you're telling _me_ this," Bruce points out.

"You're technically a civilian, no matter what you call yourself," Kate says, rolling her eyes, "but I'm not about to pretend you don't have the practical equivalent of a micronation's entire arsenal locked up in your basement. Your PR team's been doing a great job of softening it, but you haven't exactly made much of a secret out of how you feel about the Superman. For some reason, I thought you might want to know about this."

Bruce reaches out to take hold of his mug again, his lips pressed into a thin line as he draws it close to himself. "Thank you, Kate," he says.

"What are families for, if not providing highly classified military intelligence?" Kate says, stretching out to lightly _clink_ her mug against Bruce's.

"I'm sure I have no idea," Bruce says, biting back a smile.

Kate folds one leg over the other, shifting into something almost resembling a slouch as she looks over the contents of Bruce's living room again. As her eyes fall to the bottle again, Bruce takes a breath, putting his mug back down and crossing the room to put it away and out of sight.

"Sorry," he says, "didn't have much time to clean up before you got here."

Kate regards Bruce in silence for half a dozen heartbeats before shaking her head and staring into her coffee mug. She mutters something suspiciously like _genetic predisposition_ , followed by _goddammit,_ and takes another drink. Pushing out a breath, she reaches over the back of the couch and hands Bruce her now empty mug. "I know I don't have a lot of room to talk, Bruce," she says, "but take care of yourself."

"I have been," Bruce replies easily, putting the mug in the sink for the sake of cleanliness and not at all to avoid Kate's knowing eyes. The water swirls into a muddy brown before he dumps it all down the drain. Anything further she might have to say is quickly cut short by the clamor of bowls and glasses as Bruce pulls the dishwasher open. But that can only last so long.

"I'm not talking about your damn CrossFit routine or whatever the fuck it is you do down there these days," Kate says, voice tight. "I'm talking about how you hadn't let so much as a drop of liquor touch your mouth for eighteen years, and then ever since that night, you're..." She gestures to the cabinet where Bruce stowed the Scotch. "I know that can't _all_ be from you driving poor Pennyworth to drink, Bruce. I don't want to watch you drown yourself at the bottom of a bottle."

"I'm fine," Bruce says. He cracks a crooked smile. "Better than ever."

"Do _not_ ," Kate says, "give me that _bullshit_ , Bruce." She stands, arms crossed, and levels an utterly withering glare. "I know how hard Jason's death hit you. Fuck's sake, you're not the only one who mourned him."

Bruce puts up his hands. It doesn't do anything to ease the tightness in Kate's jaw or the steel in her eyes. "I'm not giving you any bullshit," he says. "I mean it. I'm fine. Ever since—" _Ever since the Superman came_ is, perhaps, too specific. Downright incriminating, given how terrifyingly intuitive he knows Kate can be. And he's been good, for the most part, at hiding exactly where and how deep his hatred lies. "Ever since the Black Zero event, it's like I've found... purpose. You were right," he says, "about my feelings towards the Superman. I've been putting aside time to formulate strategies for dealing with his kind in the hopes of preventing another catastrophe on that kind of scale. And doing that has been—" _Invigorating,_ too, is more on the nose than he's strictly comfortable with. _It makes me feel like an approximation of a human being_ , while not inaccurate, is also a bit much. "It's good to have something to focus on, that's all."

Kate presses her lips together into a thin line, but when she opens her mouth to reply, all she lets out is a long sigh. "Take care of yourself, Bruce," she says softly. "I've lost a lot of good friends to this kind of shit. I don't want to lose you too."

 

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The doctor starts to come again, bringing thin, shiny squares. When this happens, the doctor guides It towards the soft thing—the _bed_ —and they sit there together. The doctor speaks to It, asking questions, slow and simple ones that It can only barely understand, before showing It the square. The square flickers into light, shapes and pictures flashing in rapid succession. It gasps, jerking back, which makes the doctor smile.

It does not know why Its fear makes the doctor smile.

As the cycles progress, It learns. The shapes and pictures on the square are lessons, to teach It words. It learns the words for the others—their names. They, too, are doctors, but their other names are different from _Its_ doctor, Doctor Bendix. Doctor Bendix explains that some of the doctors are _he_ doctors: men; others are _she_ doctors: women. Doctor Bendix is a man, a _he_.

It sees Itself in the images for the first time, as Doctor Bendix tells It what It is. It is a _man_ , Doctor Bendix says, but It—he?—is also more than that. He is a capstone (?), the end of years of research and experimentation, to make a god. Doctor Bendix explains that the pain was a series of what he calls _surgeries_ , spread out over the course of several months. The surgeries _,_ he says, have made him stronger, faster, more durable than any other human who has ever lived before.

His name, Doctor Bendix says, is the Midnighter.

"I made you," Doctor Bendix explains, as the Midnighter pores over his own image, "to create a finer world. The people who have tried to change it most recently have failed utterly, because they have been unwilling to do what is necessary to achieve their endgame." Doctor Bendix's mouth twists with disdain. "You will have no such issue, of course. I will instill in you the knowledge of _how_ to build this new world, and the willpower to see it through to the end." The image flickers out, and Doctor Bendix stands. "Come. Let me show you what I mean."

For the first time, the Midnighter steps out of his room. Doctor Bendix produces a thin, dark strip from a space in his clothes, reaching up to wrap it around the Midnighter's throat. (Danger, danger, _danger—_ )

"A necessary precaution," says Doctor Bendix, showing the Midnighter the black cube nestled in the palm of his hand. "What I just put around your neck is a _shock collar._ Repeat that."

"A... shock collar," the Midnighter echoes, looking at the cube apprehensively.

Doctor Bendix nods. "Very good. What you see in my hand is the control to your collar. Should you deviate from my course, it will cause you _severe_ pain. This will not do any lasting damage, but it will hurt very, very much. You don't want to hurt, do you?"

The Midnighter shakes his head.

"If you do as I say, you will not be hurt. Come."

The Midnighter obeys.

Doctor Bendix leads him through a long, dark passage, the walls black and barely reflective. The Midnighter watches himself in the walls, still unable to understand the link between himself and the man he sees. He is tall—taller, even, than Doctor Bendix—his scalp bare but for a dark scattering of stubble growing around the scars spiderwebbing across his skull. Doctor Bendix takes him by the elbow, jerking him forward. He quickens his pace, watching Doctor Bendix's hand on the control with a growing fear. But the pain does not come. (Not yet.)

Their path ends at an open door leading into a pitch-black chamber. Midnighter squints into the dark until his eyes adjust, and he can make out basic shapes and features—a chair in the center of the room, with thick straps on the legs and arms; the entire back wall, which the chair faces, a different texture than its counterparts; an upper section of the far left wall has a distinct shine to it, reflecting the light from the outer hall.

"You have graduated from basic concepts," says Doctor Bendix, "to more... advanced ideas. Please, sit."

Midnighter eyes the chair warily, but the collar around his throat is, at the moment, a much more immediate threat. And so, as ever, he obeys. The chair is hard and cold underneath him, and no matter how he shifts, it offers no comfort. Doctor Bendix stands above him, unblinking, until Midnighter lowers his head and looks away. He feels something cold and unyielding close over his right wrist, and then his left—and when he tries to draw them back to himself, they won't budge.

"Keep still," says Doctor Bendix, his voice drawing the hair on the back of Midnighter's neck to prickle. "You'll only hurt yourself otherwise."

Midnighter stills, watching with growing dread as Doctor Bendix fastens first his waist, and then his ankles to the chair. Another thick band of cold metal comes to close over his forehead, locking with a finality that echoes horribly in the empty room. He can only look to the left and right through his periphery, but that offers no solace and no insight to what will happen to him next. All he can do is look ahead, towards the far wall.

The light from the doorway behind vanishes, and Midnighter flinches at the deafening _thunk_ of the closing lock.

"Tell me who you are," Doctor Bendix commands.

"I—" Fear puts a tremor in Midnighter's voice. He takes a breath, pushes the fear down; he can't make himself unafraid, but he can hide it. "I am the Midnighter."

"Tell me why I created you," says Doctor Bendix.

Midnighter swallows. "To make a... finer world," he says, echoing Doctor Bendix's words.

Doctor Bendix gives a quiet, approving (?) sound. "Tell me why you are necessary."

At that, Midnighter falters. "The others," he says, drawing back to what Doctor Bendix had told him before, "who tried to make the world better—they didn't?"

Doctor Bendix gives another quiet _hmm_ , and Midnighter hears a faint tapping. The surface of the opposite wall slowly fades to life, casting the whole room in a pale, white glow. Midnighter tenses, heart hammering behind his ribs.

"They didn't," Doctor Bendix echoes, disdain curling in his voice. "And now I will show you how they have failed."

An image flickers onto the wall, dark and blurred, of a creature shrouded in darkness, its eyes pale as its gaze bores into Midnighter's very core. Below its inhuman eyes, Midnighter can see the mouth of a man, lips drawn back over snarling teeth.

The image changes, this time to the same figure, hunched over a man bloodied and bruised, one fist clenched in the front of the man's clothes. In the other, Midnighter sees a glint of metal, carved into a shape at once agonizingly familiar and utterly foreign. A thin coat of bright red glistens over the surface of the object, which Midnighter barely has the time to recognize must come from the open wound in the victim's shoulder before the image shifts again.

A man, bare-chested, wrists lashed to some unfamiliar structure. His eyes are wild with anger and pain, mouth split open, teeth bared. His skin is marked with dark bruises—Midnighter stares for a moment with equal parts fascination and nausea at the cruel bend of his collarbone—but what truly draws Midnighter's focus, in the end, is the angry red mark against the man's shoulder. Though the figure from the last two images is nowhere to be found, the shape from before, sharp curves and stark angles, has been burned into the man's flesh.

"The common people call him the Bat," says Doctor Bendix, as the image shifts again. Another man, bloodied, eye swollen shut with bruises. This one, too, has been marked with that strange symbol. "He has taken up a crusade against the criminal element of the city above—by way of indiscriminate violence, marking his most insidious victims, and pouring them into an already bloated justice system ill-equipped to hold such a staggering number of scum."

Another image, another man, another mark. More bruises, more blood. Nausea has started to crawl up from Midnighter's stomach to his throat.

"Reportedly, the Bat does not kill," Doctor Bendix continues. "Even when the most basic moral code would dictate that it is the best option. This man—" and the image shifts again, to another man bound and marked, spitting blood— "is a murderer, an abuser, a peddler of human lives. Any justice system worth a damn would have put his worthless life to an end by now." The image changes back to the first, of the Bat cast in shadow, teeth bared. "What has the Bat done?"

Midnighter's throat is too dry to breathe, let alone speak. Before he has the chance to so much as think, a horrible pain twists through Midnighter's neck, spasms wracking his shackled body as his lips part in a silent scream. Distantly, he feels tears tracking down his face, his neck, as he tries in vain to count the heartbeats until the pain ends.

And then, as soon as it began, the pain is over.

"The Bat," says Doctor Bendix, his voice level—calm, as if Midnighter hadn't just felt some of the worst pain of his life only a moment ago, "has marked this man, to tell the incompetent, corrupt members of the police the depth of his evil. The Bat has the power, the drive, to prevent this man from harming anyone else ever again. He has operated for twenty years without any civilians learning his true identity—he need not fear consequences. And yet..." The image flickers back to the man from before. "This _creature_ still lives, because the Bat is still too much of a coward to do what is necessary."

The image changes again, to the Bat hunched over the bloodied man. Another jolt of pain lances from his neck to his spine, and he cries out until it ends.

"For as long as the Bat breathes," says Doctor Bendix, his voice low in Midnighter's ear, "you will be in pain. _He_ is the reason you were made. _He_ is the reason your creation was necessary. He is the cause, the source of your suffering. Do you understand?"

Midnighter whimpers. He can't move his head to nod. "Yes," he whispers. "I understand."

"Good." The image shifts, the Bat baring his teeth, those ice-white eyes burning into Midnighter's skull. "You will learn his methods, his patterns. You will learn to do what he will not. When you have been adequately prepared, you will meet him," says Doctor Bendix, "and when you meet him, you will fight him. When you fight him, you will kill him.

"And then, when you have killed him, you will take his place, and you will do what is truly necessary to create a finer world."  


**Author's Note:**

> SO I think I probably covered all the major triggers (thus far) up in the tags section, but if there's something you think I missed, please don't hesitate to let me know! This thing's gonna probably end up a fair bit darker than what I usually write, and I want to make sure my bases are covered and I don't end up giving anybody any unpleasant episodes, because That Shit Sucks, Yo.  
> This was one of those plot bunnies that dug its teeth into me and just WOULD NOT LET GO except for the fact that A) Midnighter's early sections were ungodly difficult to write just because of the disjointed structure, B) Bruce's everything was almost just as difficult to write because HE IS SUCH AN ASS.  
> Also, yes, I promise you didn't misread the relationship tag up there; there is most definitely going to be some (actual, not just implied) good ol' Superbat up in here, because I have no self-control, buuuut it'll likely be somewhat secondary to the Midnighter/Apollo stuff because I crave that canon gay rep. \o/
> 
> As ever, huge thanks to my lovely beta, KathrynShadow, who helped me to actually wrangle this thing into some semblance of cohesion. What would I do without you. <3
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns? Hit me up over on [Tumblr!](http://lordvitya.tumblr.com)


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